


Interlude

by wildechilde17



Series: The business trilogy [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Awesome Natasha Romanov, Blue Balls, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, F/M, POV Natasha Romanov, Protective Clint Barton, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildechilde17/pseuds/wildechilde17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deleted scene written for FireWater between chapter 43 and 44 of the marketplace fic.... I tried to smoosh them together... Maybe now you'll believe me when I say I can't make Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff do anything I want them to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FireWater](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=FireWater).



She knows exactly how to stretch, exactly where to press her body against his, she knows the ways to draw attention to her lips, her breasts, she knows the reactions that tell her to push onwards.

But it is more than that, she knows his body. She knows his likes, his dislikes, the place on his knee not to touch, the skin under his chin to nuzzle just so. She knows in intimate detail the vein that runs down the arm wrapped carelessly around her, the way its push against his skin exaggerates when the muscle beneath contracts infinitesimally.

She wriggles, an inelegant word for an inelegant overture. She presses her ass against the juncture of his thighs forcing them to part even further allowing her to press back into him. She curves her spine, her chest raising and spreading out beneath his arm.

"If you're planning on going somewhere with this, Red, I'm gonna need to see your eyes," he says, barely turning from the window.

"Always with the eyes," she moans. She strokes the skin of his arm, weaving her way over the fine hair that covers his forearm. She smiles when it slips from her shoulder and lands softly at her waist, strong arm bisecting her breasts, his hand touching the uncovered skin at her hip where her catsuit leaves her exposed.

"I'm not fucking with anyone else."

"Fucking?" she asks sweetly, like mistletoe.

"Yeah, Fembot," he says harshly, the growl in his voice is too much anger and not enough arousal. She still has work to do. "The innocent play ain't gonna work."

She rolls her eyes. The eyes, always wanting to see her eyes. She would ask him what he sees when the widow takes over that no one else sees if she could bear to know the answer.

She twists beneath his arm, pushes back on her haunches like a cat and is out from under his grip.

"Ястреб," she says and then repeats it for her own pleasure. The Russian for hawk is a purr. Clint's pupils pop. Darkness explodes in the stormy sea of his gaze and Natasha grins.

She stretches on the window box. Child's pose, balasana, a restful position that brings her bowing down between his splayed legs. One black bound leg bent resting against the window frame the other hanging helplessly off the window box. Natasha is no fool, such a position allows her partner a clear view down her clinging undershirt. Natasha is no fool, such a position is suggestive to fools and Barton alike.

"Tasha, seriously!?" he groans more to her breasts than to her, "I wanna burn through some adrenalin and fuck ups as much as the next Avenger..."

"The next Avenger being me." She licks her bottom lip and stretches forward.

"Yeah. You. The hot one," he says clipped and business like. Throwing his head back against the wall as her hands make the painfully slow crawl up his thighs.

"Really?" She raises an eyebrow, "Have you seen Thor?"

"Good looking guy." he answers, her hands climb, "Still not as fuckin' sexy as... " her hands reach his crotch. "Tasha, Jesus!"

"Now that I have your attention," she says, her grin feral and cat like at the useful euphemism, "how about that shower?"

She squeezes. He hardens. She pouts a little, aware that it is not the most comfortable of positions for him to be in with the tightness of his tac suit pants. She is more than willing to help him out of that position.

"You are a cruel woman," he says pushing her hands away from the tenting, "And I am the fuck up who fell in love with you but... No."

"No?" She sits back with a sudden thunk.

"You were not here four minutes ago."

"I was here."

"Yeah," he agrees in word only. "Here and not here. Whatever. Natasha wasn't in charge. Instinct. Triggers. Widow. Something else was in charge."

She swallows, pushes a curl back behind her ear. "Barton, I want you to know..."

"No," he says like she's the captain of the football team pressuring him into prom sex. It throws her off for a moment. He stands up, paces once across the room, runs his hands through his dirty hair.

"I'm not Barton, I'm not Hawkeye, I'm not a fuckin' agent or an Avenger right now. I'm just Clint. I'm just your Clint. If I'm allowed to be," he says hopefully. She feels the divot form between her eyebrows as she watches him, "And maybe you are right back in your skin and maybe you really want to be doing this. But on the off chance, Tash, I'm not the guy whose taking advantage. She fucked with your head. Take some time out. Look after you."

She smiles, she can't help herself, he looks distraught and aroused and confused all at once. He looks unable to decided what to do with his hands. Some small part of her, a part that ignores the team in the house, the homicidal robot said team created, the strains of ballets she cannot bare to hear that tangle in her brain like red threads, that part wants to laugh at Clint Barton.

Instead she stands, pulling herself off the window box and staring him down, "And if I want you to look after me?"

Her hand finds the zipper of her suit. She tugs, the heavy arms sliding the catsuit from her hips as the zip parts. The black leather, Kevlar and spandex construction falls to the floor.

Clint Barton's lips part. He stops breathing. His eyes are no longer blue just dark circles that caress her body as though her black panties and undershirt no longer existed. He looks wild, his hair in disarray, his skin marked with the fight, the stubble across his chin. Her nipples harden against her shirt. The still air dries the remaining sweat on her thighs, cooling her quickly. She shivers once as he stares like she is something to be devoured.

"I'm gonna regret this to my dying day. Probably 'cause you'll make me. I'm gonna..." If she took a step forward, if she threatened to raise her undershirt over the edges of her ribs, she could make him break out into a sweat. "I'm making food. That's how I'm taking care of you," he insists. "Shower. Food."

"You are saying no?" she asks, letting her fingers play across the bare flat plain of her stomach.

"I'm saying no."

"To athletic shower sex," she says working the edge of her undershirt upwards.

"To using each other to calm our shit down instead of doing something, I dunno, healthy. To shouting things from the rooftops when you gave me strict order not to," he says pointing at her, "To pushing this further than you need to be pushed right now."

His hand drops by his side, he almost pants his next breath like he has exerted all his willpower in that one speech. She follows his hand, large knuckles, long dexterous fingers... She has plans for those fingers.

"To athletic shower sex." she repeats flatly, pulling her undershirt over her head.

"God damn it, Natasha!" he shouts, looking anywhere but her bare breasts, "I'm going. I gotta go shoot something. Use up the hot water. I need a cold shower anyway." He stalks from the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.

 


End file.
